


At the End of the Path

by Niitza



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, An Attempt At Reflecting On The Impact Of The Existence Of Soulmates On Society, Angst, Angst with a (somewhat) Happy Ending, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Governmentally Sanctioned Human Experimentation, Heteronormativity, M/M, More angst, No Soulmarks, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Platonic Soulmates, Propaganda vs. The Historical Truth, Religion, Social Norms: Breaking Them, Starring: A Crossover Between Genesis And Plato's Symposium, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, World War II, social norms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 00:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16397774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: It was so rare for soulmates to find each other that young. If God had willed it to happen now, then They had to have a reason.These thoughts assailed Winifred Barnes every time Steve fell ill and the doctor told them to ready themselves for the worst - and yet she could never have imagined what trials awaited him and her son.But then, who could have?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the [Captain America Big Bang 2018](https://cabigbang.tumblr.com/). A heartfelt thank you to the mods for their organizations skillz and their trust that I'd finish this. An even more heartfelt thank you to my artist, [Gyrhs](http://gyrhs.tumblr.com/), for their wonderful, _wonderful_ illustration, which gets me everytime and which you'll find embedded in the fic. And last but not least, another huge thank you to [Layersofsilences](https://layersofsilences.tumblr.com/) for their prompt beta work and their cheerleading. I'm not sure I would've made it without you :')

**_The story_ **

* * *

 

It always starts the same way.

"What's a soulmate?" the child asks, and the mother—it's always a mother, you'll have noticed—answers:

"At the beginning there was God, and God created the Earth. They created the sky and the sun and the moon and the stars. They created the land and the ocean. They created living creatures of every kind. And They saw that it was good, and beautiful.

"But They were the only one to do so. So God said: 'Let Us make humankind in Our image, so they can roam the Earth, and touch it, and see it, and hear it, and smell it, and taste it.'

"And God created a human in Their image: one and plural and complete and perfect, with two pairs of legs to roam and two pairs of hands to touch and two pairs of eyes to see and two pairs of ears to hear and two noses to smell and two mouths to taste. God blessed them and said to them: 'Roam the Earth, and touch it, and see it, and hear it, and smell it, and taste it.'

"But the human did not roam the Earth, nor did they touch it, or see it, or hear it, or smell it, or taste it. And so God said: 'Why do you not roam the Earth, or touch it, or see it, or hear it, or smell it, or taste it?'

"And the human said: 'We have no need to roam the Earth, or touch it, or see it, or hear it, or smell it, or taste it. We are as You are, one and plural and complete and perfect, we have no need for anything other than ourselves.'

"And God felt wrath that the human thus disregarded Their creation. So when night came They caused a deep sleep to fall upon them, and they slept. And while they slept God cut them in two, each half with only one pair of legs, one pair of hands, one pair of eyes, one pair of ears, one nose and one mouth. And God closed up the wound with flesh, gathering and smoothing the skin until only one scar remained at the center of their belly, so that the human would remember the divine punishment. And God took one of the two halves and carried it away to the other end of the Earth.

"Then the human woke up and found themselves parted. And each half hurt and cried and called for the other, but they could not find it. And each half thought that the other was dead and wanted to die also.

"Then God said to each of them: 'Your other half is not dead. Roam the Earth, and touch it, and see it, and hear it, and smell it, and taste it, and at the end of the path you will find your other half again.'

"And so each half roamed the Earth, and touched it, and saw it, and heard it, and smelled it, and tasted it, and at the end of the path they found their other half again. And they rejoiced and embraced. And when they were done rejoicing each half said to the other: 'I have roamed the Earth, and touched it, and seen it, and heard it, and smelled it, and tasted it, and it was beautiful. Now come with me, and let me show you.'

"And they went, and each half showed the other where they'd roamed, what they'd touched and seen and heard and smelled and tasted while they were apart. And once they were done they wanted to roam more, to touch and see and hear and smell and taste what neither of them had touched or seen or heard or smelled or tasted before. And so they did, until their lives had run their course. And God saw that it was good."

 

*

 

Later, the child asks: "But how do you _know_?"

And the mother answers: "You just know. Everyone knows."

 

*

 

**_The mother_ **

* * *

 

As a mother, Winifred Barnes was waiting for the day her children would ask.

For now her expectations rested on her eldest, James, although he was still young enough to prefer his nickname—Bucky—and would rarely stay still long enough to hear a whole story. He spent most of his time on the streets instead, running around, exploring, picking up entire collections of bottle caps and tickets stubs, and generally poking his nose in places where it had no business being. Yet he always returned unscathed, his large blue eyes and crescent moon of a smile getting him out of any situation with little more than a mock scolding at worst. _A true little Irish terror_ , Winifred's mother called him, but it was fond, and often she'd go on sighing about how like her brother he was—little Melvin, who hadn't lived to see the new century, or the new world.

Winifred let the boy go on his imaginary adventures. If she were honest she was glad not to have such a bundle of energy underfoot the second school let out. Besides, he was always back in time to wash up before dinner.

Until one day, he wasn't.

One day, dinner was ready and George was home from work, Becca was done with her reading and Allie had been fed and sung to sleep, and still Bucky hadn't returned. Winifred found herself on the stoop, looking up and down the street, wringing a dish towel between her hands. "Where in the Sam Hill did that boy go?" her mother said from the dining-room, echoing her thoughts, while Becca complained, "Ma, I'm _hungry_."

The street was already near empty. The sun was setting, its last rays lighting up some of the upper story windows with a bright orange glow, but in the east the sky was already growing dark. Stars were flickering on one after the other, as if a celestial lamplighter had started his round. Then Winifred looked down, and here he was: her little boy. His hair was a mess as usual, his clothes rumpled. He was out of breath and one of his socks was muddied. Yet he was _beaming_.

Beside him stood another boy, a runt of a boy, with a mop of blond hair and a nose and eyes that seemed too large for his narrow face. He was looking up at her—not shyly, exactly. Warily, rather.

"This is Steve," Bucky said, gesturing expansively. His smile was brighter than the hair on the other boy's head, brighter than the last rays of the sun. He added decisively, "He's my friend."

And Winifred knew.

Everyone always knew.

 

*

 

 

*

 

And so Winifred never got to tell the story, not to any of her children.

Once she heard her youngest, Louise, ask: "What's a soulmate?"

But before she could even turn around, let alone speak, Alice replied, "Oh, you know. It's like Steve and Bucky."

Louise nodded sagely.

She knew indeed.

 

*

 

Knowing it, however, didn't mean that Winifred had to like it. She was…ambivalent about Steve. But who wouldn't be?

That first evening they'd enquired after the boy's family—there had been no thought of sending him home, not so soon after he and Bucky had found each other: no one could've been that cruel. So Steve's relatives had had to be informed. Steve's answer, however, had painted a sombre picture: no grandparents, his father long dead, his mother at the hospital. For a second Winifred had thought the worst. It was so rare for soulmates to find each other that young. If God had willed it to happen _now_ then They had to have a reason. And what better reason than to avoid leaving a small boy all alone in the world? But Steve had added, "She's a nurse, she's working the night shift," so no, the situation wasn't that dire.

George had gone to find Sarah Rogers, had asked at the reception desk if he could see her, said that it was about her boy. She'd been pale when she'd appeared, worried, until George, his hands fumbling with his cap, had explained. Then she'd clasped a hand over her mouth as if to hold in a cry. Tears had sprung to her eyes, but they'd been of joy: her son had been through so much already, but she'd never thought it'd be repaid by such a stroke of luck.

It hadn't felt like luck to Winifred, not for _her_ boy. The families of two soulmates always ended up inescapably bound to one another, and privately she'd thought that of the two of them, the small Rogers family was the one that had traded up. The Barneses weren't rich by any means, but her husband was reliable, a good worker, looking at a promotion at the plant; her brothers' store was doing well, small as it was, and even her mother and sister-in-law brought in some regular income with their crochet work. And now, on the other side of that equation, there was Sarah Rogers: a widow barely making ends meet, raising a son on her own—and with the mess that came with wave after wave of immigration, with the war still so fresh in everyone's mind, Winifred was all too aware of what a conveniently dead husband could actually conceal.

Over the years she amended that first judgment, though, even came to feel rueful for her uncharitable thoughts. For all the precariousness of her situation Sarah never faltered, never stepped out of line. There was never the slightest whisper of untoward behavior or of any indiscretion on her part. She was poor, true, but she was hardworking, with a strong moral sense and dignity which her son had inherited. What little they owned was scrupulously cared for—you'd never see Steve step outside with a hole in his collar or his shoes not shined. What little money they earned was only sparingly spent, or put aside if it could be. It had to, given how terrible Steve's health was.

That last part didn't feel like luck either. Within a scarce few years they'd had a couple of scares, and every time Winifred believed that _this_ was the reason why God had brought Bucky and Steve together so soon: because they were bound to be parted just as quickly, for an entire lifetime. Yet no matter how serious Steve's illnesses sometimes became, no matter how many times the doctor told them to prepare for the worst and the priest was called, Steve always bounced back eventually. He recovered. He clung to life—to Bucky—with a fierce stubbornness for which Winifred was grateful.

She also came to be grateful for some of the changes Steve's presence had wrought in her own son. Bucky was a lot more careful now, more settled, tethered in a way he'd never been before. It didn't mean that he'd suddenly become quiet and thoughtful, or that he never got into trouble anymore. But at least he'd stopped _looking_ for it, stopped wandering about the way he had before he'd found Steve—almost like he'd known how close he was, like it was him he'd been searching for.

Winifred was less grateful for the price that came with it, though: the worry that wrinkled Bucky's brow whenever Steve was ill, the fear that so often darkened his eyes, the anxious questions that never passed his lips but that she heard all the same. Bucky seemed to forget all of it the second Steve was on the mend, his gestures growing animated again, his gaze shining with a renewed spark as he told Steve about all the things that he'd missed, but Winifred couldn't. To her there was no making up for it.

But there was nothing to be done either, was there?

 

*

 

Bucky and Steve were registered at the mayor office as a pair, two little boys squirming in their Sunday best. Soon all the neighbors knew, as did the shopkeepers and the priest and the teachers at Bucky's school. They started to encourage Bucky to work hard: he was one half of a platonic pair, there would be no children for him, no family he'd have to be there for. Instead he could have a career, a successful one. He could go far.

Steve, less so. Things were a little bit more complicated for him.

They always were.

 

*

 

**_The truth_ **

* * *

 

They grew up.

Bucky studied. Steve did too, although his performance was a lot less stellar, a lot more sporadic. He missed too much school for it to be anything but. Yet weeks and sometimes months spent in a convalescent bed gave him some fine drawing skills: it was the only thing he could work on to pass the time when his head was too tired to read.

Bucky, on the other hand, excelled at everything. Nothing seemed to give him any trouble, be it academics or athletics. His teachers had high hopes for him, endeavored to get him a place in college, a scholarship; his parents were delighted. He grew up smart and strong. He grew up handsome.

The Barneses were well-known in the neighborhood, respected, but before long Bucky had a reputation all on his own. It wasn't just that he was talented, that he was going places. It was that he was gregarious and generous and kind. He was also courteous, and a good dancer, and _so good-looking_ : the perfect person to accompany a girl on an evening out. For that girl, having him at her arm meant getting a taste of the dream, of what it might be like to have his like as a soulmate. And at the same time it was entirely safe: he had already found his match, and it was another man. They even lived together, had done so since that other man's mother had died, everyone knew that. So yes, it was safe: a girl could spend the night with Bucky Barnes, he would never get any ideas. She could dance with him for hours, in the end he would simply walk her back home, safe and sound. And even for those who were more daring, more curious, it was okay. They could experiment a little if they wanted, ask for some kisses, get a small foretaste of what they would one day experience fully: he'd never ask for more. He'd never feel the _need_ to ask for more—because that's what belonging to a platonic pair meant, didn't it?

Steve knew all about it, of course. As soulmates, he and Bucky had no secrets from each other. He knew how much Bucky struggled with it all, because things were never that simple. Because even though Bucky knew—even though he _believed_ —that he shouldn't be, he _was_ affected by those testing kisses, those exploratory touches. More than once he came home flustered, his shirt collar askew, his face a terrible display of confusion and shame. More than once he mumbled, "I don't think I should take girls out anymore, I don't think I'm safe for them," only to give in and agree the next time a girl asked, because he was nice, because he loved dancing, because he was a little bit of a show-off. Because most of the time, it was okay.

Yet it didn't erase the times when it really wasn't. Times like tonight, when Bucky closed the door behind himself and leaned back against it as if exhausted, when he passed a hand over his brow and said, low and tense between gritted teeth, "I don't _understand_." His voice was infused with defeat and something like frustration, like anger—although Steve wasn't sure at what, exactly: himself, or everything else. Already Bucky was moving again, tugging at his tie and thumbing his collar open like they were strangling him, taking off his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair on which he collapsed sideways a second later. "It shouldn't be like this," he went on, rubbing his face with his hands. "It shouldn't—they dance with you and put their hands all over you and to them it's just _fun_ , it's just curiosity, it doesn't mean _anything_. It doesn't _do_ anything either, they think it _can't_ —" He broke off, huffed out a breath. "But it _does_." All irritation and strength left him suddenly. His hands fell and he slumped, spent, elbows coming to rest on his parted knees. His words were barely audible when he added, "It shouldn't, but it does."

Steve hadn't moved from where he was seated at the opposite side of their small table, a half-finished drawing in front of him. He was watching Bucky, worried, eyes tracing the curve of Bucky's shoulders, lingering on the spot where his shirt collar gave way to the vulnerable curve of his nape, on the curls escaping his pomade behind his ear, near his temple. Bucky probably felt it, that heavy, contemplative gaze, but he didn't move. It was, after all, nothing unusual. Steve was always watching him, staring really, to draw him, but also simply to memorize the exact shape of him: his other half. He couldn't help it. No one and nothing in the world would ever be as important. And sometimes—

Sometimes, Bucky looked right back.

Not this time, though. After a while, as Bucky still hadn't moved, Steve tore his gaze away and brought it back to his drawing. His pencil was still poised over the paper, ready to complete the lines already resolving into familiar features. He didn't lower it. Instead he remembered the half-formed thoughts that had been fleeting through his head as he'd worked. And as he did, they took on a more definite shape. He let them, picking them up carefully and turning them over. He glanced back up at Bucky, pondering.

Steve might've spent a lot of his time bed-bound, but he got around a lot too, whenever his health permitted. He'd crisscrossed the entire neighborhood as a newsboy, as a child running errands for his Ma or for Bucky's uncles. Now, as an adult, there were art classes, there were commissions to take and deliver all over, there were posters and flyers he drew for a couple unions and for the socialists on the next street over. If he could, he even helped distribute them, attended meetings, joined in for a drink afterwards, whenever he had a dime to spare. He didn't talk much on such occasions. In that respect he was Bucky's extreme opposite, and despite Bucky's stout claims to the contrary, he knew how to keep his mouth shut when he wanted. Instead he listened. People easily forgot his presence, and when they did, they talked. Or rather they discussed, they debated. They poked and prodded at lines and social norms. They put together ideas that didn't shy away from transgression.

So Steve had heard things. Things that anyone else might've dismissed as sheer lunacy, as disgusting deviancy—but that he himself couldn't. Not entirely. Not when he saw what Bucky was going through. Not when he felt the same inside: confused, conflicted, yearning.

He made his decision.

He put down his pencil and said, "Maybe you don't understand because there's nothing to understand. Maybe it's all bullshit." With a fortifying breath, he stood up and walked around the table to stop in front of Bucky, who was still sitting almost despondently. "It's okay for you to feel the way you do," he went on, dropping the maybe, the pretense, "it's normal."

"It's _not_ ," Bucky mumbled, slow and dragging. He glanced up, his lips curled down. " _You_ don't. You never do."

"I never have girls hanging all over me and demanding kisses either," Steve pointed out, but even as he said it he felt a pang, something like guilt. His words, while true on the surface, were also a misleading. He was pretty sure that, even if girls showed him the same interest as they did Bucky, it wouldn't change a thing: he wouldn't be affected by them the way Bucky was.

But that didn't mean that he never felt the way Bucky did.

He bit his lips, watching Bucky. Bucky returned his gaze, quieter now.

"I want to try something," Steve said. His voice barely wavered. "If you don't like it, then we'll forget about it, we never need to talk about it again." He swallowed. "Can I?"

Bucky was still looking at him. His eyes had widened slightly. He had to know what this was about. He knew Steve like the back of his hand, surely he could read the nervousness on his face, surely he had an inkling. He nodded minutely. Whispered, "Yeah."

Steve raised a hand, brought it to Bucky's cheek. Bucky's eyes fluttered. The rest of him had grown entirely still. He'd even stopped breathing, it seemed: his lips were parted, but no breath passed between them when Steve leaned down and brought their mouths together.

He kept it chaste and brief, almost fleeting. Then he pulled back, searched Bucky's eyes. Bucky blinked at him. He still wasn't breathing. His gaze flickered down then back up; it was all the encouragement Steve needed. He kissed him again, made it last longer, the pressure of his lips surer, and this time he felt a response, Bucky angling towards him, tilting his face to the side. The kiss deepened. Steve's hand slid up into Bucky's hair, around the back of his head then down, his nails dragging against Bucky's nape as he opened his mouth and licked at Bucky's lips, causing a shiver to run down Bucky's spine: Steve felt it judder right across his palm and—

And Bucky breathed in sharply and jerked away, broke the kiss and tightened the hold he had on Steve's hips—Steve hadn't even noticed Bucky's hands settling there—to push him back. "Wait, no," he said. "Stop."

For a second, Steve felt disappointment, an acute pang that turned into a dash of terror. "You don't like it?" he made himself ask. He didn't know what to do with his hands, now that they'd been torn away from Bucky's skin.

"Of course I like it," Bucky replied, almost growled, "that's the problem."

Steve almost huffed in relief. "It's not a _problem_ ," he said, and tried to step back in, but Bucky held him at bay, his hold stiff, a flash of warning in his eyes.

"You don't _get it_ ," he snapped. "Look, I get that you want to help, but it's not… It's not that I want to be kissed more, okay? It's—" He broke off. "Doing that'll only make things worse."

"How?" Steve asked, full of defiance, pinning Bucky with his gaze and demanding an answer.

Bucky balked, but forced himself to say, "I want— It makes me want—" His jaw tightened, as did his hands on Steve's hips. His shoulders hunched and his head lowered as he admitted, a penitent confessing a sin, "I could. Do something. To you."

"Oh."

"And I know it's wrong," Bucky hastily went on, almost pleading, a little bit desperate. "I know it goes against nature, that I'm not supposed to—that I shouldn't feel—"

"No, no," Steve cut in, cupping Bucky's face in both hands so he'd look back up. "Bucky, _no_. It's not _wrong_."

"Don't _say_ that," Bucky snarled, "not when I could—to you—"

" _Buck_." Steve let out a small laugh that might as well have been a sob. "Don't you get it? I _want you to_."

 

*

 

It took some coaxing. All Bucky seemed to be able to do was stare, was ask, "What?" and "Really?" and "You…?" and so the only thing Steve could think of to try and convince him was to kiss him again. At first Bucky barely responded, his hands loose on Steve's hips, almost shy, not sure whether they were allowed to tighten again, barely daring to slide up to circle Steve's waist. It was like he couldn't believe it, until Steve lost patience and his next kiss came with an edge of teeth. At that Bucky shivered, let out a strangled sound, and finally started kissing back. This time when Steve stepped in, he let him, pulled him closer as his legs slid further apart, welcoming. Steve took the invitation, draped an arm around Bucky's shoulders, reached for Bucky's hair again, his fingers sliding easily through the strands loosened by sweat and hours of dancing, finding a grip and tugging. Bucky seemed to _really_ like that. He shuddered again, and it was like something had just given, a stop gate opening, a trickle becoming a flood: his lips parted, his left arm wrapped around Steve to draw him against his chest, his right hand started to wander. Across Steve's shoulders, down his back, over his butt and behind his thigh, where it splayed and caught hold and _tugged_ —so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Steve lost his footing and broke their kiss with a squeak, half collapsed on Bucky's chest, gripping Bucky's shirt so tight it cracked a seam. Not that either of them cared: instead Bucky burst out laughing and finished hauling Steve in, slinging Steve's leg over his, making it clear where he wanted him. Mortified, Steve slapped him on the chest, but even as he did so he was following Bucky's lead, finishing straddling him, and so of course Bucky didn't stop grinning, didn't hesitate before swooping in for another kiss. Steve returned it with a mock grumble, which quickly faded once he became aware of how close they now were. Of Bucky's warmth, right underneath him, of his solid body, and as he settled into it he realized that this had been a _great_ idea. Sure, the execution had been poor, but now… Now there was a whole new array of things to try. He pulled back. Bucky was still smiling faintly, eyes bright as they met Steve's. Steve didn't return the expression, simply held Bucky's gaze as he slowly, clumsily—but not at all tentatively—ground down. Close as they were, he heard Bucky's breath catch at once, saw how Bucky's smile faltered, how the flush on his cheeks deepened, felt how Bucky's hold on him tightened. He grinned. Leaned back in and kissed Bucky again, slower, deeper. Reached up with one hand to scratch at Bucky's nape, down with the other to tease at his stomach and lower as he tried to angle his hips just right to—

"We should—" Bucky started, tearing himself away and ending up in a strangled moan when Steve went for his throat instead. He swallowed, and Steve felt his Adam's apple bob against his lips. He smiled and licked his way further down. "We should take this to the bedroom."

He was trembling faintly. A distracted hum was all the answer Steve gave him, too busy exploring the dip between Bucky's clavicles while he started undoing more of Bucky's shirt buttons and somehow _that_ made Bucky hiccup, drag him right back up to kiss him again and—

 

*

 

They didn't make it to the bedroom.

 

*

 

"We can never tell anyone about this," Bucky said, panting, as he stared up at the ceiling.

They were lying on the floor, where they'd ended up when he'd come and, after a surprisingly short recovery time, had toppled Steve right over and down to attack his clothes. Steve had rolled onto his back willingly enough to make it easier for him, to help. Now he let out a laugh, a real one, and rolled again to throw an arm across Bucky's chest. He barely resisted the urge to squeeze.

"Buck," he said, and only the fact that he was lying down prevented him from shaking his head, "who are we gonna tell? Who would we ever be obliged to tell?"

Bucky stared at him. Steve could see it, dawning on his face, the realization: of all the people in the world, your soulmate was the only one you were accountable to. Even the priest had no right to ask about it: whatever happened stayed between the two of you, and God.

"You're right," Bucky finally said, faintly, and then more firmly as he repeated, "You're right!", followed by a half-crazed laugh.

Steve propped himself up on Bucky's chest and cupped his cheek, leaned in for a soothing kiss. "It's been known to happen," he said. "Thank you for finally noticing."

 

*

 

And so it went on. If possible, Bucky's reputation increased: he was always here to offer a girl a good time and never did anything untoward. But now, from time to time, Steve came along too. Most girls didn't mind. Some even expected it, because of _course_ soulmates always followed each other; some found it reassuring, a further proof that Bucky was safe; some considered it sweet, smiling at Steve for wanting to share something Bucky loved so much instead of trying to pry him away from it, even though he himself wasn't one for dancing. Steve didn't bother explaining that it wasn't much of a hardship for him. He liked the music, and watching Bucky dance and enjoy himself and just be happy was a true treat.

Some of them understood anyway. They'd say they needed to catch a breath and send Bucky to find another partner for the next few songs while they sat beside Steve and watched alongside him. "What's it like?"they'd ask, shyly, dreamily, sometimes even yearningly. Steve never knew what to answer. He scarcely had any memory of his life before Bucky; trying to describe what having him was like would've been like trying to explain how breathing felt.

Other times he stayed home to welcome Bucky back once the evening was over and Bucky had accompanied that evening's partner back home. Steve never knew which state he'd arrive in: on some nights he'd be all mellow and relaxed, entirely wiped yet joyful at the same time; on others, he'd walk through the door still humming, his steps sweeping like he hadn't had enough of the dance yet, the music clinging to his heels; and then there were the evenings on which he'd come in flushed, all hot and bothered after hours of small yet daring touches. He'd crowd Steve wherever he was, not that it was difficult in their tiny tenement flat. He'd drape a sweaty arm around Steve's shoulders, nuzzle at his hair with a _Hey there_ , followed by a laugh when Steve pretended to cough at the stink of sweat and alcohol and cigarette surrounding him; or he'd be silent, and all Steve would get in answer to his _Did you have a nice night?_ was a dark-eyed stare, heavy with promises, and the kind of kiss that made him shiver all the way to his toes.

The thing was, Bucky wanted them, the girls. Or at least some of them. It took Steve a while to understand that: that it wasn't just oversensitivity borne of frustration, of yearning for the kind of touch he'd been raised to believe he shouldn't even want and wouldn't ever have. His desire wasn't vague or aimless, nor was it restricted to one person. He really liked those girls, plural, their bodies, their touches, would've liked a lot more if it had been offered, if it had been possible for him to have it, if there hadn't been Steve. Steve, who was somewhat confused by it, who had only ever wanted Bucky this way and couldn't fathom wanting anyone else. He was hurt too, a bit. More than a bit. But if people were wrong about so-called platonic soulmates, about what they could feel and want and share with each other, then they could definitely be wrong about _everything_.

Bucky wanted him too, wanted him more—there was no doubt about that. In the end, he always came back to him. Always came to him first. That was enough.

That was all that mattered.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_**The war (I)** _

* * *

 

When the war broke out, they walked to the closest recruitment center as a pair. "It's the right thing to do," Steve said when they announced their intention to the Barneses, while Bucky muttered, "It's the _smart_ thing to do."

Neither his family nor Steve contradicted him: they knew as well as he did that, in times such as these, when sacrifices had to be made, platonic pairs were the first to go—the first _made_ to go—even before any unmatched young man. So yes, volunteering might be smart. If anything, it gave the two of them the illusion that they had a real choice in this, that this wasn't just facing head on something that would've been inevitable no matter what. And who knew, maybe showing willing would grant them some leeway. Maybe, just maybe, they'd be allowed to stay together, if only for a little while. Soulmates couldn't be assigned to the same platoon, they knew, but maybe they could ask for the same company. Or just to stay together through training. They could bear anything, they thought, if they stayed together through training.

The people at the recruitment center were almost too happy to take Bucky. He was in good health, athletic, he even had an education: he was everything they wanted and more.

They didn't take Steve.

 

*

 

Steve refused to be deterred. He had half a week until Bucky had to report in: he had time. Not plenty, but enough. Clinging to that thought, he went to another recruitment center. And another.

And another.

With every rejection he held tighter to his determination, and stubbornly ignored the way his breath hitched, the way his ribcage squeezed as if caught in a narrowing vice, the way the soft litany of _no no no_ that had started the first time they'd stamped him as unfit kept growing louder and louder, until—

"You gotta _stop_ this," Bucky hissed when he caught him on his way back for the third time, hands coming up to clamp around Steve's arms, like he was afraid Steve would escape once more if he let go.

"You don't _get_ it," Steve retorted, angry, because it made no sense: how could Bucky not get it? His train was leaving _tomorrow_ , Steve _had to_ —

"No, _you_ don't get it," Bucky almost snapped, shaking him slightly, and there was something in his voice, an edge, that made Steve pause. "This is what happens. This is what they do to people like us. Because we're— You know what we are." Steve opened his mouth to protest ( _Not to me you aren't_ —), but Bucky spoke over him, went on, "And we _knew_ that. We always have, and we were being stupid, pretending otherwise. Like they would've let us stick together, even if they'd taken you. But they _didn't_. And maybe—" His hands slid up to Steve's shoulder, the side of his neck, while his gaze bore into his, almost begging him to stay still and listen for a second, to try and understand. "Maybe this is a chance. People like us, we can't expect to be spared—but _you did_. One out of two, that's—that ain't so bad. And yeah, they're still sending me out, but—" Something in his eyes cracked along with his voice, and for the first time since he'd gotten his papers Steve truly saw the fear hiding behind the facade. Bucky swallowed. "But if I know you're safe," he said. "If I know where you are. That means I'll know where to find you. If— When—"

"At the end of the path," Steve finished for him. His lips were barely moving, his voice almost inaudible.

Bucky nodded. "At the end of the path."

 

*

 

It was easier to talk about it than to live through it, though.

"It's just training," Bucky had said, "it's just Wisconsin," except that there was no guarantee that he'd go through New York before being sent off to the front; or if he did, that he'd be given leave to see his family and soulmate. And so when the following day dawned and they met the Barneses at the train station, it already felt like a goodbye, like an _adieu_.

Steve let Bucky's parents and sisters go first, and when his turn came he clung to Bucky for as long as he could—to life as he knew it, with his second half at his side. But soon they couldn't ignore the whistles of the engine or the calls of the corporals anymore: he had to let go.

He watched as Bucky stepped back, as he turned around, as he was intercepted by one of the officers and ushered into a car, as he disappeared for several minutes. The train started moving a few seconds before Bucky finally made his way to a window, sticking out his head and half his upper body. His eyes found Steve's at once, unerring. He waved—and Steve wanted to start running, grab that hand, grab him, wanted to clutch and beg, _Take me too, please, take me with him, just take me_. Instead he remained firmly rooted on the spot, Bucky's sisters flanking him, Louise squeezing his right hand almost painfully, not even trying to muffle her sobs. Around them the platform was crowded with families, parents and siblings, but there were also a few men standing all alone, hunched, some with their arms wrapped around themselves, a couple with a cane on which they leaned more and more heavily as the train gained speed, listing to the side as if on the verge of losing their balance.

Steve watched them, those men who were like him, forcefully torn from half of themselves. He watched them and the thought surfaced in his mind, slow yet merciless like the tide, _This is obscene_.

He didn't like bullies; but there could be no just war if this was how they began.

 

*

 

Less than a week later, he received a letter. Official looking, with the same paper than the one on which Bucky's orders had been printed, with the same stamp: army postal service. Seeing it Steve felt a catch in his breath, a pang in his entrails like they were being scooped out, before he forcefully calmed himself down. It couldn't be about Bucky, it couldn't be bad news, not so soon.

Still, he had to sit down before he opened it. Once he had, he couldn't help but frown.

They were call-up papers. For him, telling him to report to a center situated inside the city for a medical examination.

He stared at them for a long time—at the print characters, the cursive spelling out his name—uncomprehending. He remembered the recruitment center, the first one, to which he'd given his real name and address, remembered how they'd almost laughed him out of the room. Surely there had been a mistake.

Still, he went. The address led him to a nondescript building that didn't look like a registration office, and even less like it might house a branch of the military, even an administrative one. He walked through the door, half expecting to be stopped and turned away.

He wasn't. They took his papers, checked for his name on a list, found it. Then they handed the documents back and told him to go wait in the room at the end of the corridor. It was small and square, with chairs lined against the wall, all of them empty.

Steve sat, and waited.

A few minutes later someone came to fetch him, a nurse, and the cut of her uniform definitely had something military about it. She took him to an examination room in which a doctor sat. There Steve was weighted and scrupulously measured, from his general height to the length of each of his fingers. The doctor and the nurse tested his eyesight and hearing. They listened to his heartbeat and lungs at rest, then after a minute effort, then after a sustained one. They checked every single one of his articulations, the line of his spine when he stood straight and when he bowed his back, wrote down his medical history and family antecedents. After every single one of those steps Steve expected the process to come to a close, expected them to shake their heads and say, _Okay, this is enough, this is too much_ —but they never did. Instead they seemed determined to document every single way, large and small, in which his body was a failure.

Once that was done, they told him to put his clothes back on—it didn't rid him of the feeling of humiliation which, while not unfamiliar, hadn't burrowed that deep under his skin in a long time, nestled so close to the bone that it felt like it'd never fully come out again—but not to leave. Instead, the nurse brought him back to the waiting room, where he sat for several more minutes until she reappeared to take him to yet another office. Another doctor was there, a man with a short beard and round, gold-wired glasses. He introduced himself as Dr. Abraham Erskine.

"I am here to perform an assessment of your character," he said. Steve didn't say anything, but his growing confusion—and the accompanying frustration—must have been obvious: Erskine's expression softened minutely, a small smile appearing on his lips. "I am also one of the lead scientists in this program, so I might be able to answer some of the questions you have once we're done."

It was enough to mollify Steve into cooperating, although the interview proved awkward: from the get-go, it appeared that the army hadn't been fooled by the various names and places of origin he'd given at the recruitment centers he'd gone to. They'd kept track of all his attempts, and now Dr. Erskine wanted an explanation.

He didn't give any sign of what he thought about Steve's reply. Still, once the interview was over, he reiterated his offer to answer Steve's questions, and explained readily enough when Steve asked for more information about the program he'd mentioned: it was a research project devoted to the development of treatments aiming to enhance soldiers' physical and mental abilities. Several avenues were being explored, although Dr. Erskine dared say his attempt might be the closest to come to fruition.

"You're not satisfied with that answer," he commented when Steve frowned.

"It's just…" Steve said. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for the opportunity to— to do my part. But I don't understand. If the aim is to _enhance_ …"

He trailed off, but Dr. Erskine understood what he meant all the same. "Ah," he said, and took off his glasses, inspecting them for smudges. He seemed to find one, and took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket. "Well, it's quite simple, really," he went on as he wiped at them. "The program is still in its experimental stage. There can still be…unforeseen complications."

He put his glasses back on and met Steve's eyes, his gaze not quite apologetic, rather…compassionate, yet unwavering. It told Steve everything the doctor wouldn't, or wasn't allowed to say.

Steve nodded slowly, taking it all in. He wasn't surprised. Bucky had been right, after all: he knew, he'd always known, about people like them. People like _him_.

They were doubly expendable.

 

*

 

The project was heavily classified, and suddenly Steve suspected—no, he _knew_ that it was no coincidence that he'd only received his summons after Bucky had gone. Just as he now knew that Bucky wouldn't be returning to New York when he'd be shipped out; or that, if he did, Steve wouldn't be there, would be long gone. The army was just taking the necessary precautions: one could never trust soulmates not to share everything with each other. Legally not even the state could order them to keep things from one another, even in war. A concession might have been made when it came to correspondence, in the name of national security, of operational secrecy, because letters could be intercepted; but it didn't, couldn't extend to private conversations. So they did the next best thing: in the army, in war, soulmates were kept apart, always.

As for Bucky's family, the situation was different, and the order clear: he couldn't tell them anything. The only thing he could say was that he'd been called up.

"Called up?" Allie said, incredulous, when she dropped by Steve and Bucky's flat and found him putting their few valuable belongings in a box. In the week since Bucky had left, all of his sisters had somehow happened to be in the neighborhood and popped in at one point or another, allegedly for no particular reason. Steve didn't know if Bucky had put them up to it, or if they'd decided to do it on their own, as if by checking on him they could check on their brother. One thing was certain: they weren't being subtle.

"Yes," Steve said.

"But—"

Her voice, small, wavering, made him look up and glance over. She was standing in the doorway, expression confused and hurt, almost betrayed.

"They're gonna ask you to move in with them," Bucky had said, and Steve had replied, "I know," even though he hadn't been sure whether he would accept their offer or not. He still didn't, and never would, now: the Barneses hadn't gotten around to ask. They hadn't had the time. In a way, they'd been complacent. They'd thought that they had him for sure, that they'd get to keep _him_ , at least, no matter what: a little piece of Bucky—their son, their brother—along with the guarantee that he'd come back, or do everything he could to do so. Maybe they'd even believed that, this way, they'd know at once if something happened to him, that _Steve_ would know it.

Except that even if he'd stayed, they wouldn't have. Soulmates didn't work that way. All that crap about one half of a pair feeling the other die, or get injured, about feeling the other's emotions, hearing their thoughts, that was a myth, the stuff of dime novels. In Bucky's absence, that was all Steve was left with: absence. Emptiness. A deafening silence. Something could already have happened to Bucky and he wouldn't know. Something could happen to him, something _was_ going to happen to him, and Bucky wouldn't be aware of it—hell, by then Bucky might not even have received the letter Steve still hadn't managed to send, telling him about being called up if nothing else. Emergency telegrams traveled so much faster. Bucky might find out Steve was gone for good before he even knew Steve wasn't in Brooklyn anymore, wasn't where Bucky had left him and been hoping to find him again in the end, safe and sound. Because that was the thing: he and Steve _had_ been complacent too. They'd thought they were really feeling their parting, were fully measuring it implications, but in truth, they hadn't been. Deep down the thought had persisted, the belief, that they'd find each other again. At the end of the path.

Well, no more. A telegram. That was all Bucky might get. That was all Bucky _would_ get, probably.

"I thought—" Allie tried again.

"Yeah, well," Steve said, and tried not to choke. "We thought wrong."

He gave one last look at the few items he'd packed, the sparse relics of their shared lives, and closed the box.

 

*

 

"Will you—" Steve started, and stopped.

On the other side of the car seat, Peggy Carter turned her head towards him. "What is it?" she asked when he didn't go on. Encouraging, yet straightforward.

Still, Steve couldn't meet her eye. Instead he stared straight ahead, and managed to say: "My soulmate. If things go wrong—" _When things go wrong_ — "—could you, could you try to find him? To tell him? He should—"

He should be told in person, by someone who cared, who'd been there, who could explain. Who could lie, even, maybe, to try and soften the blow. Even though there was no way to do that, really.

Steve dared a glance in Peggy's direction. It was a lot to ask, he knew. Not only because Agent Carter definitely wasn't at liberty to just go off to find some foot soldier who'd just been shipped off to England—Steve knew he had: a short letter from Bucky had been forwarded to camp Lehigh and landed in his hands the same day Erskine had told him that he'd been selected for the procedure, and the combination of the two had made the ground feel like running sand underneath his feet, slipping away as he was inexorably pushed forward, already out of time. No, it was also a lot to ask because there was no saying how Bucky would react to being told that— that _Steve_ —

Steve couldn't picture it. He couldn't even imagine the reverse: he had no idea how he himself would react, in such a situation.

"Of course I'll try," Peggy said, like she understood, even though she wasn't like him: she hadn't met her match yet. But it didn't matter, and somehow Steve had known it wouldn't. Not to her. That was the one thing Steve was grateful for in all this: meeting her. Her presence at camp had been eye-opening, had been a solace. He'd never known anyone like her. No matter what happened now, he suspected he never would.

They shared a smile, and Peggy went on: "But you should have more faith in Dr. Erskine. He wouldn't allow things to move on to next step if he wasn't sure of what he was doing."

Steve wished for nothing more than to share her trust. Yet he couldn't. Not when they arrived at the laboratory and he saw the machine in which he'd have to lie down to be injected with the serum. It was oblong, with two panels on the side ready to close down over him like the doors of a trap—like the lid of a coffin.

 

*

 

No one was more surprised than him when the experiment was a success, when he survived.

 

*

 

_**The war (II)** _

* * *

 

He should've believed Peggy: that's the conclusion he came to in the end. Peggy, who had believed in him before, who kept believing in him even after, and so was the one to remind him that he could be more; that he could, should escape the role in which Senator Brandt had stuck him. In the plane Stark was driving straight to danger, to possible death, Steve looked at her and finally realized—or maybe simply admitted it to himself: he could love her. Probably already did, in a way he'd never thought he could love someone who wasn't Bucky. He wanted her, too. And he wasn't entirely sure, but part of him felt like she wanted him too.

She met his eyes. She smiled, a little bit devilish, a little bit afraid—they were beyond enemy lines by now, could be spotted and shot down any second—but also, despite of it, maybe because of it, ferociously alive. Steve felt it echo down to his bones, and if there hadn't been Bucky…

But there _was_ Bucky, there _would_ be Bucky, still. To Steve it as a certainty, quiet in its obviousness: of course there would be. The fact that, so early in Captain America's visiting tour to active units, he'd ended up right here, in the very camp where the few survivors of the 107th had found refuge, didn't feel random. Nor did Peggy's presence, her knowledge of the situation, the fact that they knew that most soldiers had been captured instead of killed, that the map showing the location of the factory in which they were being held had been neatly laid out on Phillips' desk and was now branded in Steve's mind… It felt like a sign. It felt like God pointing Their finger, showing Steve the path They'd chosen for him, having dragged his other half over there first so Steve wouldn't have a choice.

Steve didn't mind. On the contrary, for the first time in over a year things felt right: he was finally where he was meant to be, going where he was meant to be going. The only surprise was that in the end, and contrary to what they'd both been expecting, it was him, not Bucky, who'd be doing the finding.

He shared a last glance with Peggy, a nod. Then he pushed it all out of his mind, took a deep breath, and jumped into the night.

 

*

 

Things in this world couldn't be as simple as God meant them, though.

After his stunt in Austria, Captain America couldn't be ignored or dismissed as a mere propaganda tool anymore. However, neither Senator Brandt, nor the propaganda office were willing to give up on their tale entirely. Within days propositions were being made to take back control over the narrative, numerous propositions, a lot of them contradicting each other, but all agreeing on one point: the story couldn't and wouldn't be that Captain America had risked his live to go save his soulmate from beyond enemy lines.

Steve was a bit confused: in his opinion it would've made for a fine piece of propaganda. He'd even feared how they'd exploit it. Yet voicing these thoughts earned him nothing but dark looks all around, especially from Colonel Phillips.

"And tell me," he growled, "in your _esteemed_ opinion, should we hand out free licenses to any and all matched soldier to just go M.I.A. to try and save their soulmates? Should we have them printed in gold letters while we're at it?"

No, they preferred another version, where Steve's actions were nothing but a disinterested feat from Captain America's part, a proof of his heroism, his sense of justice and sacrifice. As for ensuring that there would be no wondering, no rumors about any possible hidden purpose—after all, recklessly risking one's life to save one's soulmate was a staple of novels and movies that reached far beyond the genre of romance—they had a lot of ideas for that too, which started and ended with Peggy.

Someone must have seen her welcome Steve back to camp, or caught sight of them talking later on, or maybe it was simply due to the fact that she'd been the only woman around when the whole mess had gone down. Point was, another tale came into being, as classic as the real one, but different in all the ways that mattered: Captain America had found his soulmate in Peggy Carter. But the world was at war. They both knew it, and accepted what it meant—that they'd have to be parted, and fight not only to save the free world, but also to save themselves, to find each other again, at the end of the path.

Steve couldn't deny that it was a great spin on the story—because surely, if Captain America could keep fighting the good fight away from his soulmate, even though he'd _finally_ found her, then everyone could and should be able to do the same, shouldn't they? But at the same time…

"It'll never work," he protested. "What about all the soldiers we brought back? They saw me with Bu— with James, they _know_ —" Because everyone always knew.

Phillips gave him a flat look. "This is war, Rogers. People are tired, they're hungry, half of them have gone half mad from all the shelling—you wouldn't believe what people see sometimes. Or what they think they saw, until they rest up, eat something, and realize it was nothing but the latest batch of delusion and there was nothing there. So believe me, that won't be an issue."

Steve barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "This is ridiculous," he said. "He'll be on my _team_ —"

"All the more reason to throw people off the scent," Phillips retorted. "Do you know how many requests the army gets daily, from people asking for transfers on grounds of being soulmates? We are _not_ encouraging them to try harder by showing them Captain America traipsing around with his."

"And how do you plan on hiding that, then?" Steve snapped.

"Oh, we have plenty of plans," Phillips said before he could belatedly tack on a less-than-respectful 'sir'. "The question is, do _you_?"

 

*

 

He was at least granted permission to be the one to tell Bucky—which stopped feeling like a win the second he had to actually face him and say the words. But Bucky didn't react with obvious anger, or confusion, or hurt. Instead he stared, for a long time, his lips tightly pressed together, his expression tense.

"You're telling me," he finally said, slowly, heavily, "that if we do this, if we let them say— You're telling me we'll get to stick together?"

Steve nodded, full of dread. "Yeah," he said, and hastily added: "I'm sorry, I tried to tell them—"

Because it was absurd, it was _ludicrous_ , but Bucky was already nodding, saying, "Okay. Okay, if that's what it takes—fuck, if that's all we gotta do, just gimme the fucking script and I'll be fucking _Shakespeare_."

And that was that. Or rather, that was that _in theory._ In praxis…

In praxis it meant hours, sometimes entire afternoons Steve would have to spend with Peggy in front of cameras that snapped picture after picture of them bending over the same map, talking strategy, exchanging looks and smiles. Small scenes—all staged, of course. The SSR collaborated with the propaganda office to plan them in advance whenever Peggy was the one sent to brief or debrief the Commandos, whenever their downtime happened to coincide. They painted brief moments of respite, meant for the people back home more than anyone else: a positive thought for them to enjoy, the belief that even in the middle of the carnage Captain America was still lucky enough to cross paths with his soulmate from time to time. But of course he was: they were meant to be, after all, of course chance would help.

For Steve and Peggy, it simply meant more work. They couldn't be themselves in front of the cameras, they had to make it look real. In Steve's opinion, it simply turned all their interactions awkward, stilted: he couldn't believe anyone would buy it. And yet…

"I don't think they even know the _truth_ ," he murmured to Bucky, a bit incredulously, jerking his head towards the crew that was finishing packing up and filing out of the day's set, a field tent set up to look like a makeshift shelter near the front when they were currently in the suburbs of London. Steve rolled his shoulders, tilted his head this way and that to assuage some of the tension these sessions always left him with, added, "I can't believe it, it has to be _obvious_."

He expected Bucky to snort, to say something scathing about the intellectual abilities of camera crews Hollywood hadn't bothered to try and keep away from the army—or maybe about how a secret was only ever as good as the people knowing it, and therefore should be shared as little as possible. But Bucky didn't.

"Dunno," he mumbled, "looks pretty convincing to me."

And there was something, in the tone of his voice, something hesitant, faltering, that made Steve frown. He ducked his head to try and meet Bucky's eye, to search his face, but now that the crew had taken down their lights the interior of the tent was dim, the corner where Bucky had been standing even more so. It always was: he might come along to these sessions more often than not—even Phillips didn't try to kick him out, as he knew how much his presence helped Steve look like he should when speaking to his 'soulmate'—but he never interacted with Steve in front of the cameras, never spoke directly to him if he could help it. Instead he stayed off to the side, in the shadows, silent, motionless, easily overlooked and easily forgotten—but there, watching, all the same.

Steve couldn't make out his expression. He opened his mouth to ask, "You okay?" but before he could Phillips was calling his name, impatiently waving him over, giving Steve no choice but to change tracks and say, "I'll see you later," voice rising at the end in a question.

"Sure," Bucky replied—only when evening came and Steve, finally done with his many obligations for the day, returned to his quarters, Bucky wasn't there. Steve stood in the middle of the empty room, at a loss, fingering his tie. He wanted nothing more than to take it off, along with his jacket, but for that he'd need to lock his door—one of the privileges that came with being an officer. Yet he couldn't, lest Bucky finally arrived and took it as a dismissal. Besides, remaining dressed might be the smarter choice, in case Bucky had forgotten their appointment—he wouldn't have—or was purposefully staying away, a thought so upsetting that already Steve was feeling the urge to turn right back around and go look for him, to walk down to the barracks and ask—

He almost startled when two sharp knocks resonated against the door, immediately followed by the handle turning, the panel opening to reveal Bucky, eyebrows raised in surprise like he hadn't expected the room to be unlocked.

"Sorry," he said, his lips curling in faint apology as he slipped into the room, "I thought you'd be caught up in meetings for a while longer."

It wasn't a reproach, yet Steve couldn't help but feel like it should be. Despite their being on the same team, the amount of time they got to spend together, just the two of them, was extremely limited—because most of the days they were allotted between missions were almost entirely taken up by Steve's annex duties as Captain America, because they were under strict orders not to be seen together in public without at least one third party to act as a buffer. It was almost unbearable at times, a gnawing ache: to have his soulmate right there after so long, after almost losing him for good, and yet being forbidden to spend any length of time with him, being deprived of that intimacy, that sacred amount of space and time that was any pair's inviolable right and due.

He walked closer, asked, "You okay?"

"Of course," Bucky replied at once, but he wasn't meeting his eyes, giving an excessive amount of attention to the simple act of locking the door. Still, he didn't resist when Steve reached out a hand, cupped his cheek to turn his face up and towards him, to meet his gaze.

"I don't like this anymore than you do," Steve said in a low voice. Bucky watched him for a beat longer, then let out a trembling breath, released some of the tension bunched around his shoulders. He leaned his head into Steve's palm, almost nuzzling, eyelids falling shut. "We can stop," Steve added, "any time. I'm not that great an actor, I know that, surely it wouldn't be too difficult for me to become so abysmal that—" But Bucky simply huffed around a small, brief smile, before he shook his head—not hard enough to dislodge Steve's hand, though.

"No," he said, hand creeping up to grip the lapel of Steve's jacket, "it's okay, it's just me being my stupid self, just—" Before Steve could say anything he was tugging on the lapel, dragging Steve closer as he tilted his head up, "—just come here, come on, just gimme a kiss."

"Well, I don't know," Steve said, craning his head back to keep his lips just out of Bucky's reach, "this ain't exactly what your Ma woulda called asking _nicely_ so—"

"You're a dick," was Bucky's retort, before he brought their mouths together, chasing any thought of further poor attempts to diffuse the situation straight out of Steve's brain. They kissed. It was nice, a relief, a reassurance, and yet at the same time full of… _something_ , an aftertaste to Bucky's kisses, enhanced by the way he reached for Steve and clung to him as they stumbled over to the bed, as they divested themselves of their clothes, as they pressed against one another like they could fuse back into the single being they'd once been; something fierce, almost harsh, a bit desperate maybe, like he was afraid they might not fit, like he was afraid Steve would slip out of his hold and vanish forever. Steve could only reply by resolutely returning his embrace, his kisses, by holding him just as tight and bearing down on him with all his newfound weight, his presence undeniable, inescapable, crushing Bucky into the mattress. It made Bucky gasp and swear, hiss, "Yes, come on, come _on_ , give it to me—yeah, just like— _Steve_ —"

It was a far cry from his first reaction to Steve's new body, days after the rescue from the factory and their return to camp, the first time they'd found themselves truly alone with one another, with little chance of being disturbed. Bucky had still been reeling somewhat, incredulous, but also hesitant, skittish, as if afraid of touching Steve's arm, his chest, and find it real. "Did it hurt?" he'd kept asking, along with questions about when exactly it had happened, how many months ago—down to the day and hour, and it had taken weeks for Steve to realize what it was really about. That, staring at his new body, Bucky couldn't understand how come he hadn't felt it, something of this magnitude happening to his other half, to his other heart and lungs and spine. That Bucky couldn't help but believe that he _should_ have felt it, or an echo of it at the very least—even though he had to know that soulmates didn't work like that. That, watching Steve and Peggy building a lie that sometimes looked too much like the truth, he couldn't quite trample down the doubt, the suspicion, the fear that the serum had done more than give Steve strength and health, that it had changed him on a more fundamental level, to a point where they might not match anymore—and that fear, Steve understood all too well.

He hadn't expected to survive the experiment, so he hadn't bothered to stop and wonder about what it would do to him apart from probably killing him—about how exactly it would change him. He remembered stumbling out of the machine, and later on staring down at his body after that long chase, that fight, remembered finally realizing what exactly had happened to him, what he could do now, remembered feeling—

He'd been breathing, quick and loud, but regularly, his lungs settled, _settling_. Breathing properly for the first time, even though he'd just run for _miles_ and fought and swam, and his chest hadn't even hurt, nor had his back, nor had his feet despite being bare. For a second he'd felt nothing but amazement, elation—and then, just as quick: panic. After a while it had relented—it had had to—replaced by the low yet constant hum of anxiety, as for months afterwards he had wondered.

It had all vanished, though, the fear and the suspicions and the doubts, the second he'd found Bucky. The second he'd stepped into that room at the factory and found him on that table, the second he'd touched his wrist, his face… His whole being had rippled, had seized and relaxed and settled. _Oh_. A tension had unraveled, which he hadn't been fully aware of until it had.

Bucky had been so out of it, though. He'd been in so much pain, and trying to hide it: it wouldn't come as a surprise if he hadn't felt that rush of relief, if doubt kept lurking in his mind. It was only when they were alone like this, trading clumsy, open-mouthed kisses as they came down from the high, quiet, sated, appeased, that he fully relaxed. That he seemed to truly believe that, no matter how much had changed, they—the essence of them—hadn't, and never would.

 

*

 

There were other moments, though; in the field, on missions with the Commandos, who knew the truth—how could they not?—but were sworn to secrecy all the same. Within that team Steve and Bucky were a unit, in ways that went further than the usual complementarity between an officer and his sergeant. With Bucky at his back Steve felt secure, settled, was able to focus better. That was the word: better. He was a better soldier, a better leader, with Bucky at his side. His body was stronger, his mind clearer, quicker; more daring at times, more cautious at others. The both of them scarcely needed to share a glance, a gesture, to know what the other had noticed, what he needed, what he was planning.

Over time, it became more and more obvious, to the point where Steve didn't believe Bucky hadn't noticed; and where he started wondering why being allowed to work together made them an exception—a secret one, to boot. If having their soulmate at their side enhanced a soldier's performance that much, yielded such excellent results, then why had the army banned them from ever being sent out in the same unit? In the context of a war, where means were scarce and most strategies could be summarized as gaining the upper hand no matter how, such a rule seemed absurd. A precious resource, an untapped source of power, which they were depriving themselves of for no reason Steve could see.

Or, he couldn't, until the train.

 

*

 

_**The train** _

* * *

 

When it happened—or rather, until it happened—Steve wasn't afraid. Not quite. Bucky was dangling off the torn side of the train, and getting to him obviously wouldn't be easy, but deep down Steve had no doubt that he would. He was confident in his new body, in its new size and strength, and they were soulmates: of course he'd reach him in time, of course he'd catch him. In that second, it felt like everything that had happened had been meant to lead him to this moment: to saving Bucky again.

He inched his way out of the torn opening, squinting through the icy wind and snowflakes whipping at his face. The frozen metal was cold under his hands, seeping right through his gloves, turning his fingers numb. The train jolted on its rails. His hold almost slipped, he almost lost his footing—and still he wasn't afraid. He caught Bucky's gaze, reached out a hand. "Just grab my—"

The tips of their fingers brushed. There was a screech of metal. And then—

And then the world stopped making sense.

 

*

 

"You don't understand," he babbled later, hours, days, he didn't know, he _couldn't_ know. He repeated, "you don't understand, I have to go back, I have to find him—" But what he meant was, _I have to catch him_. When he said _go back_ he didn't mean to that ravine to find a body, he meant to that moment, he meant _go back and do it right this time_ , because it made no sense, it made _no sense_ , that he hadn't caught Bucky. How could he not catch him? They were _soulmates_ , and with the body he now had, with the new length of his arms and the new strength of his hands… Like a gift from above that had made his reach that much wider, just for that purpose, and yet—

"You don't understand," he said, but what he meant was, I _don't understand_ and—

Peggy slapped him in the face, hard.

It snapped him out of it, somewhat. Long enough for him to realize where he was, to remember: how he'd sat next to the opening, stunned, unable to move or think, how Gabe had been left to finish the mission on his own, securing Zola, getting them both off the train, dragging them to meet with the rest of the team, how Monty had had to take command to bring them to their extraction point. To the rest of the Commandos it had been like they'd lost not one, but both of their leaders. No, it had been worse than that, because Steve had been a burden that could very well have caused their mission to fail, unresponsive one second, trying to turn around and go back the next, ready to struggle and shout, uncomprehending, when they'd held him back. That they hadn't been caught only owed to how professional, how organized the Commandos had been despite that terrible handicap, as if—

As if they'd been prepared for it. And it was only now, as Steve's mind briefly quieted and he met Peggy's eyes, that he realized: they had been. They had planned for that eventuality, for one of them both not coming back from a mission. They'd known what to do, how to react, who would be in charge—whereas Steve naively, stupidly, had never even thought of the possibility and so never bothered with setting up a contingency plan.

Peggy's expression was sympathetic, but unyielding. When she saw that she had his attention, she said, "I _do_ understand. But you can't go—you know you can't," she hastily went on before Steve could protest. "You— We have work to do. Zola is talking, we have all the intel we need on Schmidt's plans, finally." She put her hand on his, her eyes never leaving his. Steve swallowed: he'd always loved her directness, how she never shied away from _anything_. Not even this. "This is the opening we were looking for," she went on. "We have to use it, now." A short pause. "Don't let Barnes' death be for nothing."

 

*

 

His death. His _death_ , he's _dead, he's dead he's dead he's_ —

 

*

 

He still didn't understand. Not only the fact that he hadn't caught Bucky; but also that, having failed that, he hadn't jumped right after him either.

 

*

 

_**The plane** _

* * *

 

He didn't understand, until he was in the plane zooming over the ocean. Schmidt had disappeared bare minutes beforehand, dissolved into thin air, leaving Steve faced with a command panel of which he understood nothing and the potential death of millions strapped under the wings. There was a radio, though, and that at least he knew how to use. He managed to open a line—yet the second he made contact, Morita's voice coming through the speakers, he looked through the cockpit window, and knew.

In front of him there was nothing but the sky, and the sun hanging low on the horizon, shining a blindingly bright light over the clouds, the water, the ice: a vast emptiness, a silent world. Yet it was calling to him. Just like he had when Peggy had told him about the captivity of the 107th, he could suddenly feel an immeasurable presence pressing down on his nape, forcing his gaze forward, could almost see a finger pointing the way. So yes, he understood: what he was meant to do, and how God had sent Bucky ahead once more, to make sure that there was no mistake.

It was both merciless and merciful. Merciless, because Bucky hadn't deserved to fall, to pay for Steve's weakness—because he knew that, had Bucky been the one at the other end of the radio line instead of Morita, instead of Peggy, Steve might not have had the strength to go through with it all. Yet at the same it was merciful: a promise. What he had to do was terrifying, would probably be painful, but in the end, but soon, Steve and Bucky would be reunited for good, forever.

Steve clung to that hope, and pushed the lever to bring the plane down.

 

*

 

_**The telegrams** _

* * *

 

The letters came within three days of one another—long before the armistice, but still weeks after the facts. They were brief, caustic almost, and didn't deliver any information as to what, exactly, had happened. About the when, the how, the why.

They found out some of it eventually. From the press for Steve—Captain America, as they called him everywhere, as if there hadn't been a real man under the cowl, behind the shield—whereas for Bucky they had to wait longer, wait for months after the war was over, wait until the Howling Commandos themselves showed up on their doorsteps, their faces grave and their hands fumbling with their caps. Winifred wasn't surprised though, not after those officers had come and told the Barneses about the lie, about how things were going to be now. Those men hadn't been too forthcoming with their explanations either.

But it didn't matter. All that matter was that now, after all these years, Winifred Barnes had her answer. It was so rare for soulmates to find each other as young as Bucky and Steve had. But God had made it happen.

And They'd definitely had a reason.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_**The future** _

* * *

 

At least he would have a lot to tell Bucky, Steve thought—or tried to, forced himself to, because there had to be _one_ good thing about this century, about being woken up so brutally, so unexpectedly.

Most of the time, he couldn't see it.

He would have a lot to tell Bucky, but also already suspected that he wouldn't know where to start. So many things were different in the future, were so strange. And yet in a way, in many ways, they were also very much the same, the similarities somehow even more uncanny than the rest. It was like waking up one morning to find the sky green and the grass blue, and everyone walking around like that was normal, and looking at _you_ strangely if you gave any sign that, in your eyes, it wasn't.

The changes were everywhere, too: in the ways people dressed, in the means that had of going around, of communicating, of following the news; in the way they talked, the way they moved, the way they ate. In the way they lived. In the way they thought—about the past, about the future, about politics, about society, about themselves and others; about soulmates. Every action, every conversation felt like a minefield: a stretch of land that looked innocuous, normal, familiar enough for Steve to believe he could cross it without issue, based on what he knew of the world…only for the ground to blow up right under his feet two steps in.

The worst were his interactions with Tony. At times it felt like the man was purposefully choosing the riskiest path, or putting down explosives where there had been none. It was as if he _wanted_ any and all conversations he had with Steve to go awry—like the time he came down to D.C. for a consult with S.H.I.E.L.D., and ended up talking about the repairs currently being done on his tower, concluding a lengthy rant about how difficult it was to find an alloy that'd make even the largest bay windows impervious to close-range shockwaves with, "Pepper says maybe we don't need a 360° view, but it's not about _needing_ , it's about—"

"Pepper?" Steve asked, latching onto the name, because no matter how hard he tried to follow the conversation, all that chemistry babble about boron trioxide, about compressive and thermal stress, about polycarbonate, left him a bit lost. Hard sciences had always been Bucky's thing rather than his.

Stark stopped talking and blinked at him, baffled, like Steve had just told him he believed the Earth was flat. "Yes, Pepper," he said slowly. "Pepper Potts? CEO of Stark Industries? Smartest woman alive, foxiest person to ever walk the Earth, light of the universe—of _my_ universe, specifically?" At Steve's minute frown, he added, "My girlfriend?"

Steve's frown deepened. "But she's not—"

He stopped when he saw the spark in Stark's eyes, dark and angry and so familiar already, one gust of wind away from turning into a furious fire. He remembered the file S.H.I.E.L.D. had given him with perfect clarity, though. He could see it in his mind, and with it, on the row labeled 'soulmate', the name: Col. James R. Rhodes.

"Not what?" Tony asked slowly, voice as tense as his features. "Not anywhere near being in my league? Not dumb enough to saddle herself with me when she doesn't have to? When she _shouldn't_?" He snorted before Steve could even think of an answer, jerked his eyes away. "It's 2012, _Cap_ ," he went on. "Now, I know you'd _love_ for things to be as neat and proper and _tragic_ for everyone as they were for you and Carter, but that's not how we do things in the here and now. Instead we do the healthy thing and don't pin all our chances and hopes for joy and fulfillment on one single person—we actually _try_ to be happy. And guess what? Crazy as it might seem to you, nowadays that's not a crime."

_So get used to it_ , his gaze said, provocative and unrepentant, daring Steve to be shocked, to grow indignant, to try and contradict him. Steve gritted his teeth and—

And Bucky had always said that, beside his anger, his pride was his worst sin.

He kept his mouth shut.

 

*

 

He understood better now. Why S.H.I.E.L.D. had been so eager to tell him that Peggy was still alive after they'd woken him up. Why they'd been so confused, so disturbed, when he hadn't rushed to her bedside at once.

They'd sent him to a head doctor, a bland woman in a bland suit in a bland office who'd spoken in a pleasant, appeasing—bland—voice. "Do you feel disconnected from your soulmate?" she'd asked.

Steve, who'd thought that she knew the truth, that _everyone_ knew the truth by now, had stared. Captain America's identity as Steven G. Rogers, born in 1918 in Brooklyn, New York, to Joseph and Sarah Rogers, had been declassified in 1995, they'd told him, along with most of the information pertaining to Project Rebirth. So he'd just _assumed_ —and he'd reeled, in that office, in front of that doctor, at such cruelty, such absurd stupidity.

It had been delivered in such a careful, solicitous tone too. That had only made it worse. Did he feel _disconnected_ from—

He'd clamped right up, and refused to answer any of the doctor's questions, to react to any of her gentle prompting. He'd told himself that it was a decision, the single, petty sign of resistance he could oppose, but he knew the truth: he wouldn't have been able to utter a word.

After the session had come to an end—after an excruciating hour of one-sided silence—she'd probably written a pretty damning report about his mental state. In the weeks and months that had followed, the employees at S.H.I.E.L.D. had treated him strangely, a bit fearfully, in a way that went beyond the usual reverence prompted by the serum. They'd treated him like they couldn't understand him, like he wasn't quite human, like he was dangerous, in a way. Only Romanov hadn't changed her attitude—but then, she was a master at not letting her thoughts show.

He hadn't gone to any further appointments, after that.

 

*

 

"You never told the world the truth," he told Peggy the next time he saw her. It was on one of her good days, so she understood at once what he meant: her lips pressed together, her face softened in an expression that wasn't quite apologetic but still full of sorrow. He hated himself at once for broaching the topic.

"No," she said. He didn't ask why, willing to let her change the subject if she so wished; but after a little while she added, as if he had, "You have to understand, at first it was—" She looked down. "You were dead. You were dead, and there were still so many things to be done, so many things for me to do—only they wouldn't let me, not if they could help it, and they tried—oh, believe me, they tried. And being your soulmate—being Captain America's soulmate, even after his death—or maybe _especially_ after his death… It gave me something, the clout I needed for them to not be able to dismiss me entirely. It was the foot in the door that made it possible for me to use my other assets to push my way in." She looked back up at him, met his eye, smiled. "I knew you would've understood."

Steve smiled back. "I would've. I do."

She reached out to put her hand on the back of his. Steve turned it over and interlaced their fingers.

"It stopped being so important after a while. And maybe I could've said something then, or when your files were declassified, once the Cold War was somewhat over—but Steve, I was a spy. Even as late as the nineties, I was. Still am, in a way. If I had come forward to tell the world the truth, I would've put myself right under the stage lights—when I needed to be able to work from the shadows. It was better for me to be remembered as nothing more than Captain America's fated love, the poor half he'd left behind—as someone people spare a brief thought for from time to time, but are glad to forget again almost at once, without wondering too hard about what has become of her. It _was_ ," she insisted, having noticed how Steve had breathed in, how his shoulders had straightened, how his lips had pursed—because Peggy Carter deserved so much more than that kind of pitying oblivion and he couldn't believe no one had ever—

But the look in Peggy's eyes was steely, full of warning. She arched one eyebrow in that imperious way of hers, and Steve felt himself deflate, concede: she knew better. Of course she did. She always had.

"Did you ever meet your soulmate?" he asked after a silence.

"I did," Peggy said, relaxing into her pillow, letting the smile return. "Her name was Angie."

"And she didn't mind?"

"No," she replied. "She was an actress. At the time it was still better for people like her—for hopefuls who belonged to a so-called platonic pair—to pretend they were unattached. Added to the glamor."

Steve nodded, remembering. Then he smirked. "Was she famous?" he asked. "Any chance I might've seen her in something?"

"I beg your pardon," Peggy replied haughtily. "She was a _real_ actress—only ever acted the _real_ way, on a _real_ stage, in a _real_ theater."

"And only for real plays by Shakespeare, I bet?"

"Marlowe was an acceptable alternative."

Steve grinned, ducked his head. He'd been stupidly wrong, he realized: of course there were good things this century. And this, right there and now, was definitely one of them.

 

*

 

An exhibition had been set up at the Smithsonian, in honor of his 'return'. He'd been invited to its inauguration, as a courtesy, but he hadn't gone—had let a mission be his pretext for not being able to attend, even though said mission hadn't been promising and had indeed been a bust, in the end. So much so that, after the fact, he'd started to suspect Agent Romanov—Natasha, as she kept telling him to call her now that S.H.I.E.L.D. partnered them more often than not—of having orchestrated the whole thing, of having upped the priority level of the mission to give him an out, the means of an escape if he wished it.

Now, though, he went, and realized that a lot of things would've become clearer much sooner if he hadn't dithered.

The pretense still held, that much was obvious. An entire room was devoted to his relationship with Peggy as it had been constructed by Senator Brandt and approved by Colonel Phillips: from their first meeting at Camp Lehigh, their means of communication, the rare moments they got together and the even rarer fragments of footage documenting them, to the heart-wrenching end. It was right there, all of it, whereas Bucky…

Bucky, too, remained stuck in the same position he'd been forced into during the war: a phantom presence only visible at the fringes but which Steve felt everywhere, if only in negative. There was scarcely a mention of him, at best a couple of lines on his final sacrifice at the bottom of a panel. Whenever his name was mentioned, it was always the last on a list; whenever his face appeared, it was only in group pictures, in the back, almost blurred and easy to overlook: nearly erased already. The only space where he was granted any attention was in the section about the comics, which had been, God, such a ridiculous concoction. The Commandos had laughed uproariously over it, although they'd never gone as far as to directly tease Bucky about it, this caricature of a character he'd been turned into. His whole story, his whole life, mangled beyond recognition. His own self, turned into a cartoon figure, a _child_ —but a child without parents, without siblings, without history: without any past outside of the army, without anything to link him to the place Captain America hailed from, to Captain America himself. Even back then it had sent Steve's stomach roiling with indignation, with sorrow. Now it almost made him choke: all the things Bucky had had to bear, all the bitter pills he'd had to swallow, all for the sake of being allowed to stick close to Steve, as close as possible, until the very end.

And yet there was no trace of that. No footage of just him and Steve together, not even a picture—of course there wasn't. If there had been, the truth would've been obvious, undeniable. Instead they'd killed it—killed him—until it was like it had never existed at all.

 

*

 

It made Steve's mind boggle, though, that among all the interviews that had been held with the Commandos since the war, not one had changed the situation, had shed any light.

"Would you believe it?" Peggy said when he shared these thoughts with her. "No one ever questioned it. No one ever _asked_."

That was true, too. He could see it for himself in the exhibition, and in the countless works and articles that had been written over the last seventy years. Of all the monographs and journals about the war, about Captain America, about the Howling Commandos, only a single book was centered on Bucky. A thin volume, biographical, by a Walter Collins: _The Seventh Commando_. It was dated from the late nineties—and even taking the constraints of national security and military secret into account, Steve couldn't quite believe that it had taken that long for someone to come looking.

_We all have this experience_ , the preface read, _whenever we try to list one of those things that come in seven—the seven sins, the seven wonders of the ancient world, hell, even the seven dwarves. We always forget one_.

He'd almost closed the book there and then.

It did clear up some things, though. The author had managed to reconstruct some of the truth about Bucky's origins and family, about his way through the army. But while the account wasn't riddled with errors, it was still full of holes. So much had been lost, it seemed: his call-up papers, most of the files surrounding his training, half of the documents pertaining to the first years of his life at the public office—up to and including any registration certificate that'd indicate whether James B. Barnes had found his soulmate before he left for the war.

It took Steve under an hour to read the entire thing: Bucky's life, summed up in a hundred pages. In the end, they were little more than an admission of failure at finding anything substantial. Mr. Collins saw it as the combined result of time, of negligence in the storage of key archives, and of military secret. The lack of information and footage about Sergeant Barnes, he said, could easily be explained away by the role he seemed to have held within the Howling Commandos: that of the sniper, of the infiltrating agent, of the executioner—someone who strove to stay out of sight, slipped through the cracks, clung to shadows while the rest of the team drew all the attention to themselves. Such an asset, Mr. Collins wrote on, would benefit from not having their face plastered all over propaganda posters and movie reels. It'd also explain why so much of the information pertaining to his missions remained out of reach, even now. More would be brought to light as the rest of the World War II archives were declassified, he argued—it they ever were.

Steve had to admit: all in all, it was a more than reasonable explanation. Still.

He knew better.

 

*

 

Mr. Collins had done his work diligently and looked for witness accounts, of course, but most of the sources he could've called on to talk about Bucky's youth were already long gone by the time he'd started his work. When it came to the war, he'd had more options, had obviously managed to wrangle interviews with some of the Commandos, with Peggy—but it was like Peggy had said: he hadn't asked the right questions, hadn't known to ask them, and no one on the team had volunteered anything.

He'd tried to find the Barneses, too, without much success. Winifred and George Barnes had both died in the early seventies, a couple of years apart—as had Louise, Steve found out then. Little Lou, whom he'd held in his arms when he'd been ten years old and she still a baby, gone before she'd even reached 50.

Both Alice and Rebecca had declined Mr. Collins' requests. Steve wondered why—wondered what they'd known, what they'd been told, what they'd figured out for themselves. What they'd thought. If they'd hated him, in the end, for being the one who'd brought Bucky to his death, instead of being the reason he came back, like they'd wanted him to be, like he should've been.

He'd gone to their graves, of course, as soon as he'd been able to. They were almost all there: Winifred and George and Lou—and Allie, who'd never married and died an old woman at 83, in 2009. So close, and yet so insurmountably far. They'd had Bucky's name added too, even if his body had never been found.

Rebecca was absent, and Steve had no way of knowing whether she was buried somewhere else, or maybe still alive. He didn't dare hope. The first time he'd visited, the family plot had been in pretty poor shape. Obviously no one was left to take care of it.

He did so, now; he came by as often as he could. It was the least he could do. Hell, it was his duty, now that everyone else was gone: as Bucky's soulmate, he was part of the family. No matter what the world said or believed, no matter how many proofs it erased: it couldn't prevent him from claiming that due.

 

*

 

He remained discreet about it all, though. Despite his discussions with Peggy, his pain and indignation at seeing Bucky all but erased from history, he wasn't sure whether he should tell everyone the truth—wasn't sure that he _could_. Part of him rebelled at the very thought. The wound was still so fresh, the grief both so huge and so intimate. Talking about it would be like opening his arms wide to reveal the crippling wound in his chest—the carved-open ribs, the struggling lungs within, the mangled heart. It would be like inviting people to gawk and point and—

It wasn't just that, though. The topic of soulmates was endlessly confusing to him, half of what people said about them a complete turnaround from what he'd been taught, what he'd grown up with. No one denied their existence—who could deny it, when it was so obvious? However, there were people claiming that they didn't have one, no soulmate at all, that it wasn't just that they hadn't found them yet, simply that there was no one for them to find.

It didn't mean they had to spend their life alone, though. Because in the here and now, in the future, it was okay not to spend your life with your soulmate. It was okay to build that life with someone else. Hell, it was okay to have a relationship with someone else, no matter how long or how short. It was okay to—to sleep with them, to have children with them—children who wouldn't be treated any differently, neither by law nor by people.

More than once, Stark had goaded Steve, snarked at him for disapproving of all this. It wasn't that, though, not quite. Steve remembered Bucky and the girls, how tormented he'd been; he remembered Peggy. He remembered old Mr. Travis, how some people would insult him and kick him out of their shops, how others would avoid him, or act if he wasn't there, as if he didn't exist; he remembered not understanding why that was—because Mr. Travis was so _nice_ —until his Ma had explained it all to him, and it had seemed so unfair to him, that Travis would be treated that way, like an anomaly at best, a monster at worst, when it wasn't his fault that his parents hadn't belonged to the same pair. And he remembered the discussions he'd been part of, the ones who'd given him the courage to reach for what he really wanted with Bucky, remembered Rachel Sullivan asking, _If people are meant to only ever be with their soulmates, then how come they can still have children with_ anyone _?_

So no, he didn't disapprove. He just couldn't be quite comfortable, couldn't quite understand why people nowadays seemed so insistent for the right to live away from their soulmate, their second half, as if it was a privilege, something to strive for—when Steve would've given anything, _anything_ , for a day, a minute, a _single_ _second_ with Bucky at his side again.

 

*

 

Natasha had started trying to set him up—with women, all of them. Steve wondered if telling _her_ the truth would change a thing. He doubted it: she was already encouraging him to move on, to find someone else, even as she believed his soulmate to still be around and kicking, albeit with steadily declining health. She would only double down on her efforts if she found out that said soulmate was actually already gone. Hell, had Bucky been alive, she might've still done the same. It was okay now for so-called platonic soulmates to go find love with other people, Stark was proof enough of that. More than that, it was accepted, it was _encouraged_.

Because wanting to stay with your so-called platonic soulmate—wanting said soulmate in a way that was anything but platonic… _That_ still wasn't a thing people thought could happen—or were ready to accept—as far as Steve could see.

 

*

 

He met Sam Wilson, a former soldier, a pararescue, who'd fought to save lives until he'd lost his partner—his soulmate.

"They allowed you to serve together?" Steve couldn't help but ask.

Sam only looked momentarily confused. "Why wouldn't— Oh, right. _Right_ , back in your time, it wasn't— But I mean, yeah, yes, they did. They did some testing back in the—I think it was the 60s? And they found out that soulmates performed better when together—had better endurance, better focus, quicker reflexes and so on—so much so that they decided it overweighed the risks—in case one half…" He trailed off, briefly lowered his eyes, went on more subduedly, "… well, you know," even though he couldn't know how intimately Steve knew indeed. He shook himself, shrugged. "Or maybe they only thought so because the Russians already had as many soldiers fighting in matched pairs as they could find, and they couldn't afford the disadvantage. Point is, it's pretty common now, especially in special units."

Steve nodded slowly—and it was the strangest feeling, really: he had no idea whether to be envious, or sympathetic, or simply, devastatingly sad.

 

*

 

He almost asked Sam, just as he'd almost asked Peggy: _How do you do it, how do you live with it, knowing—does it ever stop hurting? does it ever become bearable?_ But he didn't. He couldn't, mostly because he didn't know what answer would be worse: that he'd forever live in agony, Bucky's absence like a freshly torn limb—or that the agony would fade, would become something he was used to: something he'd accept, the new truth of his life, something that just _was_.

 

*

 

The thing was, he did feel cut in half, feel like God in Their wrath had picked him up and torn him away from himself and put him at the other end of the Earth, to roam forever as a punishment—although for what, he wasn't entirely sure. For trying to cheat Them, cheat death, he surmised. For choosing the easy way out, for trying to join Bucky so soon after their first parting, when he maybe, probably, should've stayed and fought instead. There had been so much left to do, he now knew, and by giving up the way he had, he'd left the rest of the Commandos, left _Peggy_ alone to deal with the whole mess. God had let him find Bucky early: that should've been enough for him to bear their parting, no matter how long. Yet selfishly he hadn't—he hadn't even _tried_. And so here he was, here and now, already parted for seventy years, and with just as many to look forward to, if not more. Even if he had God's reasons wrong, he didn't doubt _that_ : he understood Their command of penance if nothing else.

This time, he would obey. He would live—he would roam the Earth, and touch it, and see it, and hear it, and smell it, and taste it, for as long as God saw fit.

For Bucky's sake, he had to.

 

*

 

And then against all odds, before the end of the path, he found him.

 

*

 

_**The soldier** _

* * *

 

When he woke up in his hospital bed for the second time it was night, visiting hours long past—and yet he wasn't alone in the room.

He turned his head minutely, and there was Bucky, standing beside the window, the curtains fluttering in a faint breeze: it was open a crack. He wasn't moving, eyes on Steve, and yet his immobility had none of the predatory stillness it had had on the helicarrier, when he'd just been waiting to pounce. This was—Steve wasn't sure what it was.

"Hey," he said, or tried to. His throat was dry, barely letting his voice through, and the faint movement tugged on the stitches on his cheek—not painfully. They were itching more than anything; he would need to have them removed soon.

Not now, though. For now he just looked at Bucky, who hadn't replied, didn't even seem to be breathing. Belatedly, Steve wondered what he was doing here, if he'd felt compelled to come finish his mission—but no, no, if he had Steve would never had woken up in the first place. It had to be something else. Maybe the same thing that made Steve stare at him, made him afraid of blinking, of closing his eyes for a second only to find Bucky gone, the image of him dispelled, an illusion, a dream. Instead he tried to trace his features, obscured as they were by the darkness of the room, the unfamiliar scruff on his cheeks, the cap on his head. He'd changed clothes, replaced his gear by items that were nondescript but also clean, and somewhat comfortable, and warm: jeans and a flannel shirt and a jacket. His right shoulder didn't seem to be hurting him. He was okay. Healing. He was alive.

(Alive, alive, he was _alive_.)

Then suddenly, after what felt like hours, after what felt like a mere handful of seconds—nowhere near enough _time_ —he abruptly turned his head. In a flash he'd vanished, out the window that had closed behind him, the curtain settling like it had never moved at all, all before Steve could react, before he could say, _Wait_.

He tried to sit up, winced when his gut wound protested—and almost startled when the door opened and a nurse appeared, doing her nightly rounds through the ward.

 

*

 

He let the nurse do her quick check-up, although it was a struggle not to let his inner turmoil show, and when the door finally closed behind her, Steve shut his eyes, hid his face in his hands, and cried. It was just… It was so much, _too_ much, relief and sorrow and guilt and gratefulness all at the same time, because Bucky was alive ( _he's alive, he's alive, he's_ alive) and—

And he'd had it all wrong. He'd thought of himself as Eve, cut apart from Adam, snatched up by God and displaced as a punishment for wanting to die too soon. But he understood now: if there had been a punishment, it hadn't been for wanting to find Bucky again. It had been for not having faith that he would. Growing up as he had, with Bucky at his side, he'd always believed all those people who said that being parted from your other half was the worst thing that could ever happen to you, a cruel and final fate. He'd been terrified, at times, at night, thinking of all the years stretching in front of them: so much time for something to happen, for something to go wrong. It'd be him, he'd thought. All those winters waiting to do him in, to force him to leave Bucky with nothing but a long, solitary life… Something he'd been determined not to let happen—and busy as he'd been with that endeavor, he'd never thought to prepare himself for the opposite scenario. So when it had happened, yes, it had felt like the worst punishment he could've received—and he hadn't even known for what.

But it wasn't. It was a trial, and at the same time it was a gift. It was a promise: being parted meant that they'd be reunited eventually. But Steve hadn't heard it. In his grief he'd thought Bucky gone for good when he'd simply been carried away, had tried to take the quickest path towards their reunion and instead delayed it by nearly seventy years. He'd still had a task ahead of him, but he'd shirked it, and for _seventy years_ Hydra had flourished almost unencumbered. Worse, they'd had Bucky in their clutches—Bucky, who had been showing the way the whole time. If Steve hadn't stayed in the plane—if he'd bothered to _try_ , if he'd actually looked for him, he would've uncovered the whole thing that much sooner. He would've spared the world so much pain, spared Bucky so much torment.

But he hadn't. He'd lacked faith, and _Bucky_ had been the one to pay the price. Steve wanted to kick, to scream at the unfairness of it—but weren't he and Bucky one and the same person? In punishing one of them, no matter which one, God would always be punishing them both.

Steve knew that now. He'd learned.

He wouldn't make the same mistake again.

 

*

 

Bucky came back the next night, and the next. He didn't seem to understand why, staring at Steve with increasing bafflement, with something like fury in the tight line of his shoulders, in the downward curl of his mouth. He still remained silent, remained motionless, until on the third night Steve held out a hand, palm up. Bucky simply glared at it, glared at Steve, but Steve didn't relent, kept it offered, gaze not quite beseeching, mostly hopeful and patient.

Eventually, Bucky took a step. Then a second one. He slowly lifted a hand—his right hand—eyes still narrowed, body coiled as if ready to jump away at the slightest sign of a threat. Steve was careful not to move an inch, barely even breathed, until finally, _finally_ , Bucky's fingers brushed against his. Their skin, touching; a whisper at first, and then Bucky's hand settled fully in his. A faint noise was heard; Steve couldn't have said which of them had emitted it. All he had eyes for was Bucky, for the shiver that coursed through his body, taking away a subtle yet constant tension with it as it faded.

Steve knew what that felt like. He felt the same: like putting one's backpack down and taking off one's shoes after a long day of walking, like feeling sand under your toes after hours of swimming, of struggling to stay afloat, like tucking into a large plate of food, drinking a huge glass of water, after days of thirst and hunger. Despite himself, his fingers curled, cradling Bucky's hand.

Bucky huffed. "I don't—" he said, the first words Steve had heard from him since the helicarrier. His voice was as raspy as it had been back then, rough with disuse. "I feel—when I'm here, I feel—" He broke off again, frowning, angry at himself for not finding the words before settling on, " _Why?_ "

Steve found himself at a loss to explain, though. Growing up as he had, with Bucky at his side, he'd never even wondered. _Why?_ To him, to Bucky, it had just been the way things were.

 

*

 

"You're going after him, aren't you?" Sam asked after he'd been released from the hospital, after Natasha had left.

Steve looked up from the file she'd given him and—paused, when he realized what he was about to do. But after everything that had happened, after everything Sam had done for him, the least he deserved was to know the truth.

"I don't need to," he replied, closing the file. "He'll come to me." He swallowed. "He's already come to me."

Sam tensed. "What? When?"

"At the hospital."

"And you're _okay_?"

"Of course I am. He wasn't there to finish the job, he—"

"How can you be so sure?"

"He'd never hurt me."

Sam stared at him. "The fuck he'd never— He shot you three times! One of them in the _gut_ , he shattered your cheekbone, hell, he _cracked your skull_ —"

"He stopped," Steve reminded him, "as soon as he remembered who I was."

"So you say, but—look, I know he's your friend, and that you have a lot more history with him than people usually think but—"

"Sam," Steve interrupted, voice soft. Sam stopped talking, taken aback. Steve caught and held his gaze as he went on, "Peggy Carter isn't my soulmate."

Sam frowned at first, confused, mouth opening to ask, _Why are you telling me this now?_ before realization dawned in his eyes.

"Oh man. Oh hell," he said. "Really?" And, when Steve managed the slightest of nods, "Fuck, that is _fucked up_ , that's— _Fuck_."

 

*

 

Bucky appeared in Sam's kitchen that night, when Steve came down for a glass of water. It was 3 a.m., the streets outside dark and quiet, the tiles cold against the soles of Steve's feet. Bucky's presence was a surprise, and not. Mostly, it was a relief. Part of Steve had been worried that Bucky wouldn't know where to find him now, he realized—a stupid concern for him to have had. More pressing was how dangerous it was for Bucky to be here: after nearly a week of floundering, the authorities were regrouping, starting the long process of investigations and search parties and arrests—and, with Alexander Pierce deceased, with the S.T.R.I.K.E. team out for the count, finding the Winter Soldier was quickly becoming their number one priority.

Bucky knew it, too: the bafflement and fury were still there, had increased, only now they seemed to be turned inwards, at himself, for being so careless, for taking such a risk. Yet here he was, eyes roving over Steve like they couldn't help it, lingering on his middle. Checking.

"I'm okay," Steve said, "it's already healed." Or would be, in less than a day. He finished his water and put the glass down on the counter, his eyes never leaving Bucky. Gauging. He took a breath. A step forward. Bucky didn't move, didn't blink, even as Steve came closer and closer, until he was standing right in front of him. His throat was so tight it hurt, the pain flaring as he swallowed. "Can I—?" he tried to ask, but his voice gave out halfway. Bucky seemed to understand all the same, although he didn't nod—but he didn't shake his head either. He just stood, watching, waiting.

Slowly, carefully, Steve lifted his hands, his arms; then he stepped in and wrapped them around Bucky—Bucky who froze, tensed, so much so that Steve felt a stab of panic…until Bucky let out a faint gasp. His own arms came up and around Steve, tightened, brought their chests together. Steve's breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes shut, dipping his head forward to muffle any sound that might escape in between the folds of Bucky's clothes. Bucky's hold kept growing tighter, familiar and not, his left arm rigid against Steve's side, unyielding; it was going to bruise, but Steve didn't care—God, he _wanted_ the mark, wanted the proof of this moment scored into his very skin.

He didn't know how long they stayed that way. Bucky's forehead had come to rest on his shoulder, and even though his hold was tight his whole body had relaxed, leaning heavily into Steve's.

Eventually, Steve managed to get enough of a hold of himself to find his voice and murmur, "You can't stay here."

He almost stumbled, then, because Bucky stepped back at once, all of his weight gone in a second. His eyes were wide, angry. Betrayed.

"No, wait," Steve said, catching and holding Bucky's arm before he could retreat further. "I didn't mean—you _know_ I didn't mean—" He expelled a breath. "It's just, it's dangerous, for you to be here."

"I _know_ ," Bucky growled. "But—"

He didn't seem to know how to go on, looked frustrated and…helpless. Terribly so. Steve felt his shoulders droop, echoed softly, "I know." He made himself straighten up, though, added, "But I want—no, I _need_ you to be safe, and right now we can't know what— We need time. We need to regroup, to figure out how what our options are—and there's still Hydra, they're out there and they need to be stopped and you…" He paused. "You know you have to go."

"No," Bucky snarled, and it was his turn taking hold of Steve and refusing to let go, his left hand almost punishingly tight around Steve's wrist. But there was also something desperate to it, reflected in his eyes—and Steve, who'd read the file Natasha had put together, lacunal as it had been, who knew that it contained but the bare bones of the whole story, couldn't not understand: how impossible it'd feel, to willingly let go of the first thing, the only thing, that had made him feel good, that had brought him respite, that had made him feel _whole_ , after dozens and dozens of years.

"I'll come with you," he said, because who was he kidding? He couldn't let go either. But even as he said it, he knew that it wouldn't be that easy. The Winter Soldier hadn't been found yet and everyone expected him to be long gone already: he could still disappear in the turmoil, slip through the cracks. But for Captain America to do the same, when he was being summoned to every single hearing, when the press kept looking for him and demanding answers…

"You'll have to go first," he went on, "but I'll follow. I swear to you, I _swear_ , I'll follow." He clung to Bucky's hands, repeated, promised, "I'll find you, wherever you are."

He just needed to figure out how to escape.

 

*

 

"Of course I'll help," Sam said. "Man, do you ever need to ask?"

 

*

 

In the end it took Natasha, it took _Tony_ , to come up with a viable plan. They didn't know the whole truth; they knew he was hoping to find Bucky, but not who Bucky really was to him—a small deceit Steve felt guilty for, but he didn't have time for the reveal, for the doubts, for the questions that'd ensue, not with his heart beating a steady drum of _go go go, go to him, go and find him_ , now. Natasha probably had her suspicions anyway, or she soon would: she already knew that his motivation went beyond wanting to go after Hydra at once, to spearhead the chase, to be useful instead of toadying to a corrupt government's demands. Yes, she'd figure it out soon enough, and fill Stark in as she saw fit. In the meantime, Steve would take whatever he could.

He went to see Peggy before he left. He couldn't be sure of how long he'd be away, of whether she'd still be there when he came back—if he came back.

"You've found something," she said a scarce few seconds after he'd sat down. Steve blinked, then smiled ruefully: she'd always been able to read him like an open book.

"I did," he said, "I _did_ , Peggy, it's—" but she cut him off, raising a hand as if to slap her fingers against his lips.

"Don't tell me," she said. "Someone might come looking." Steve paused, his heart squeezing just as his worry spiked. She knew chances were high she'd become a target, and yet she was still trying to protect him from her failing mind—while he was getting ready to leave her, _again_.

She knew him too well, though, saw it all unfold on his face and said, "Oh no you _don't_ ," preemptively, forbiddingly, before he could even try to apologize. He deflated; she patted his hand. "Just give them hell for me, darling. That's how you can help," she went on with a smile, although it was stiff, lined with steel, with cold fury. Of course it was: to see her life work corrupted in such a way, the rot running so deep that the only option left was to burn it all to the ground… To know that she hadn't been able to stop it.

Steve was certain she had, though. Or that she'd at least slowed the process down. Obviously Hydra had had to wait until she was all but gone to successfully set their plans in motions. Not that Peggy would want him to tell her that. So he said, "I will," quiet, solemn: a promise. "Will you be okay, though? Will you be safe?"

"I'm a 92 year old woman, there isn't much they can do to me at this point," she pointed out. "Besides, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. Some of which I've never gotten to try up until now." Her smile widened, turned into a smirk. "Tony called too. I'm sure the both of us can generate a fair amount of noise together. All those things I kept secret for so long and now—" She let out a short sigh. "Well, there is no point anymore, is it? I might as well help sort through the mess and focus on what's actually important—which reminds me." She perked up. "There's this woman doing her PhD on me—brilliant young thing. She wanted to write on female spies during and after the war and, well. The events of the last few weeks have blown her topic wide open, as you can imagine. And while I'm sure she'll wrangle it back under control eventually, right now panic seems to be the dominating feeling. Understandably so." She and Steve exchanged a smile. "She's quite desperate to meet with me again and—well, we'll certainly have a lot more to talk about now than we did before. And I was thinking—" She briefly hesitated. "—that I could also tell her the truth about us. About you."

Steve almost snorted. "What's one more revelation at this point, right?"

"That's what I thought," Peggy said with a nod. "But I had to ask—since I can, this time."

"You didn't have to. You can tell her anything you want," Steve replied, before the implications caught up to him—because Bucky was _alive_ , and so the truth Peggy was offering to reveal _would_ matter, a lot, down the road. "But if you do," he added, "do tell her about Bucky, too. It'll be off-topic, I know, but—"

"But it's high time for things to be put to rights," Peggy finished for him, "for both of you."

 

*

 

They met up in Poland, Steve on a semi-official recon mission on Hydra's Eastern European network, Bucky the partner no one would know about—and even though Steve had scrupulously followed the plan he and Bucky had tentatively put together that night in Sam's kitchen, even though Bucky had left all the information Steve had needed to pick up his trail at the exact location they'd agreed upon, he still seemed surprised when he opened the door to the safe house and found Steve on the doorstep.

"You're here," he said. "I wasn't sure—"

He stopped himself, but Steve heard the rest all the same. _I wasn't sure you'd come_.

"Buck," he said, wanting to reach out, to take Bucky's hand, but Bucky looked wary, more distant than he'd been back in D.C.: he wasn't sure it'd be welcome. Still, he went on, "I swore to you I'd come. I always will."

From now on, he would.

Bucky took that in, eyes searching Steve's face. Steve didn't know what he found there, but he nodded, stepped back to let him in. It was a tight fit, the corridor so narrow that Steve brushed against Bucky and the wall both, even as he tried not to. The floor was made of old linoleum, the walls covered in faded, flowery paper; a naked lightbulb hung from the flaking ceiling, glowing yellow—incandescent, not LED.

"This is cozy," Steve said, half sarcastic, quickly taking it all in while Bucky closed and locked the door. He turned, ready to ask where he should put his bag, and was surprised when Bucky didn't let him, simply stepped forward and tugged him into a rough embrace. He flailed, his bag sliding right off his shoulder until it thumped to the floor—until he thought to hug back. To wrap his arms around Bucky. To close his eyes, to breathe him in. To settle. Here and now, for a second: peace.

Eventually they parted, Bucky letting out a slow, trembling breath.

"I've been remembering," he said, meeting Steve's gaze. "Dates. Places. Some names. A few codes. It's all a mess, but—I've been trying to pinpoint it all on a map."

"We can cross reference," Steve said.

Bucky nodded. "I've set up some things," he said, gesturing towards a door at the opposite end of the corridor. His other hand had slid down Steve's arm to wrap around his wrist. He didn't let go. "Come on, I'll show you."

_I've roamed the Earth_ , Steve thought, _and touched it, and seen it, and_ —

His face split into a smile.

He followed.

* * *

 

End.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! [Here is the masterpost](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/179388489306/my-entry-to-the-cabigbang-2018-title-at-the), for those who'd like to reblog the fic on tumblr :)


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